You should have seen me reading Ginsberg.

Hi, I'm Niall and I made these things with my words. I hope you love them.

[philosophic-alcoholic-blog]

Here’s some short poems that have no real sense of continuity. x

I saw a picture of a gecko wearing sunglasses

And a little hat.

Some geckos just want to wear sunglasses

And that’s ok.

Let the geckos do what they want.

They’re not trying to stop you from doing anything.

Some geckos don’t want people to have abortions

And laugh at you for talking to the Moon.

Fuck those geckos.

And their little hats.

“Hey Mr. Gecko how’s your hat gonna stay on

If you spend like 79% of your life upside down

On the ceiling?

Exactly

You don’t know jack.”

————————————————————————————

I’m sorry 

I should have gotten milk

And now you’re pouring out your cereal

And there’s no milk

And I don’t have the guts to tell you

So I’m just going to pretend to make toast.

————————————————————————————

Someone once told me that dreams are

Glimpses into our parallel lives in other dimensions.

Last night I dreamt that I had chicken nuggets for hands

So Dustin The Turkey had to roll my rollies for me

And I couldn’t stop apologising.

————————————————————————————

I heard the ocean through a seashell

And it told me to fuck off.

————————————————————————————

One time Michael Collins came over for tea.

I asked;

“Will ye have some tea, Mick?”

He said;

“No! I want a 32 county republic!”

There was an awkward silence while I offered him some

Jasmine and ginger

And tried to remember of I’d invited him over  

For political reform or not.

————————————————————————————

The comedian Frankie Boyle has a live stand-up DVD entitled

“If I Could Reach Through The T.V. and Strangle You I Would.”

He pretends this makes him edgy

rather than a philandering psychopath.

Frank Boyle’s hobbies include

Shouting guttural nonsense at ducks,

Punching elderly women in the face,

Writing racist threats in excrement on shop windows,

And urinating on fruit.

Every night Frankie Boyle goes to sleep

And dreams of race wars, human suffering

And urinating on fruit.

He sleeps better than you or I.

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

Are you depressed?

Not in the slightest.

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

The Anonymous  Death of Paper Boats.

Recently I’ve started thinking about who I am to other people.

Recently I’ve started pulling my own teeth.

Recently I’ve found myself staring into space, counting the dust.

I can always make it to twenty one but never past that.

Recently I’ve been smiling at strangers on public transport.

Children are the only ones who reciprocate

And even then I think they’re doing so sarcastically.

Recently I’ve bought into selling out.

Or, sold out of buying in,

I can’t tell which side of the fence I’m on today.

Recently I’ve been building a moat of disused filters around my house

So people will think that an ogre with an admittedly limited lung capacity lives there.

Thus far my attempts to scare small children haven’t surpassed

The usual level which my general demeanour gives off.

Recently I’ve stopped showering or using my daily L’Oréal moisturising face mask.

I find my own natural oils very soothing

And the light film of grit you get all over your body is a great exfoliator.

Recently I’ve stopped caring about climate change or who’s president.

In the event of a nuclear holocaust simply knock on my door

With a supply of every available narcotic to hand and a four minute warning.

I’ll show myself out.

Recently I’ve seen a lot of dead animals by the roadside in Dun Laoghaire.

Last week I swore when I stubbed my toe.

Recently I’ve been jumping over Grand Canyons and tripping over Luas lines.

The other day I gave a man some spare change.

He thanked me,

Smiled a broken piano key grin

And said I just saved his life.

Recently I could say the same for him.

Recently I bought myself a very large yellow hat.

It smells of sunshine and pesticides.

I have yet to get a second opinion on this and I am unsure

As to whether it is actually a hat or a chamber pot spray painted yellow.

Either way, money well spent.

Recently I seem to be giving all my money away.

Recently I’ve been letting my phone die on purpose.

Recently I’ve been running away from things that aren’t chasing me.

Recently I’ve been drinking too much.

Recently I haven’t been drinking enough.

Recently I’ve stopped putting all my hopes into tiny paper boats

And setting them out to sea,

Knowing that they will sink under the weight.

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

Give me lies and politicians Give me life and executions Give me power and institutions Give me a hug and persecution Give me God and prostitution Give me pain and retribution Give me sex and television Give me laws and word pollution Give me neon and immaculate conceptions Give me liver failure and a four hour erection Give me a package deal and a bad internet connection Give me your vote and a dubious election Give me loopholes and a constitution Give me questions with no intrusions Give me an answer and convolution Give me shelter with no exclusions Give me hope with no solutions Give me love and absolution Give me a pen and elocution And I’ll write this situation.

‘Give me, Give me, Give me’ - Niall Donnelly 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

In another universe Where revolving doors open backwards And butterflies are never mistaken as moths, I kissed you on the edge of a cliff And neither of us fell off. In another universe Where trees sing songs about highways And bees bury secrets, I wrapped an eyelash in lilies and you said you’d forever keep it. In another universe With purple seas and lemon skies, Not enough questions and opaque eyes, I brought you soul in plastic bags Speaking love in disguise. In another universe Where ceilings hold parties And I don’t know your name, We passed each other on the street And both looked back the same. In another universe Where people ate flowers And tiny dinosaurs ran banks, We stared at the sky, Our white speckled black fish tank. I held your hand And my heart did a dance, You told me to jump And we slipped in romance. In every universe not known to us But all just as wide, I opened my heart to you And placed you inside.

“Well Versed Multiverse” by Niall Donnelly

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

I, X Five.

I

I use poems to grow forests in my veins.

Cluttered syllables in my undergrowth,

Holding outstretched limbs like bent and broken branches

Hoping to house a bird’s nest, or a

Fox’s den.

Hoping to make it better for a life

That knows nothing of the splinters it causes me.

II

I smoke rolled cigarettes to the filter.

The sickly orange burn tickles my lip,

The taste of smoke sweet and black

Like syrup or sandpaper.

Exhaling pale ghosts substitutes

Conversation.

No one asks where my skin has gone.

III

I die and rebirth each day in

Sweat drenched sheets.

Soft afternoon haze and

Skull made of glass,

Jagged, like the memories of a night

Already lost to the spirits

Of semen, sedation and perspiration.

IV

I lift loved ones out of ditches

Dug for them by invisible men

Claiming to do God’s work.

But God’s books are too long

And I doubt

He

Owns a shovel.

V

I,

breathe out each second that passes through us all

In the vague hope that it will get better.

I am no fox nor bird,

I have lived through these many ghosts,

I still succumb to hedonistic spirits,

But I am laying down my shovel.

This world does not need more holes.

[philosophic-alcoholic-blog]

Amateur poet, professional human. Hi there person, I'm Niall and I made these with my words. I...

Hello Tumblr. I’ve made a Facebook page for my poetry, I’ll be updating it much more than I’ll be updating my current blog so if you want to see some of the shit that I write give me the ol’ like. Danke. 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

I’ve been neglecting this Tumblr a bit but that’s simply because I’ve been writing more spoken word poems, that don’t necessarily translate as well written down. Hopefully in the next while I’ll have some cool proper videos that Zak will help me out with, watch this space. 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

Shit dude youre fucking talented

Sound man, my ego thanks you. 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

You mind if I share some poems with you? It's such a bore, no one writes these days anymore.

Of course not man, I love reading other people's stuff! 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

uve a fat head n look like a snake n ate all the cury chips

This is 100% Katie. Get the balls off my Tumblr, dude. If you've go a problem with my love for curry chips fight me in real life. 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

A friend linked me your tumblr about 20 minutes ago and I truly cannot believe how amazingly talented you are. I adore writing and after reading your stuff it has made me love it even more. Don't ever stop writing

Thank you so much! I'll try not to, I truly adore messages like this, they keep me writing. So thank you again! 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

It's such a hard industry to become successful in, and not that I hope you become successful in a commercial or famous way, but I hope you become successful in the sense that thousands of people will read and love your writing because it's so beautiful and people really should see it.

Jesus, the love I am getting tonight is ridiculous. Thank you all so much. This is one of the nicest messages I've ever received, I honestly don't know how I can thank you guys. 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

Wow your writing is really interesting, i just couldn't stop reading. I love how you often name writers of the beat generation! Your work is amazing and moving xx

Thank you so much, man! Yeah, the beats would probably be my biggest inspiration poetry-wise. I just love the balance between powerful messages and phonetically/rhythmically pleasing words in their poems. Specifically Ginsberg’s eyeball kicks, that’s been a huge influence on me. But I’m glad you like my writing, bud. Seriously, It’s messages like these that keep me going so thank you. 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

Well anyway, here's the drunken poem. The quality is shit, as is my performance but regardless; It's called 'Toy Soldier' and I actually quite like it. 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

When he left he didn’t leave much behind. A suitcase packed half-full with everything he owned, two empty bottles of Jack Daniels stashed neatly in one corner, a dry corpse in a cheap suit. And a note, simply saying “Sorry for the smell”. He had never taken his own life before and was anxious to do it right. He’d gotten the 8:45 a.m. bus to Phibsborough (It arrived at his stop at 8:47 a.m. He was annoyed by this, but he wasn’t sure why), said thank you to the bus driver as he disembarked and received a quiet grunt of acknowledgement. On his seven minute walk to Woodies hardware store he saw a dead bird being repeatedly run over by morning traffic. Once inside the store he bought three metres of rope. He wasn’t sure how much he’d need. It was at this moment that he realised that he did not know how to tie a noose. He wondered if he should ask the cashier. “And why would you like to know how to tie a noose, Sir?”. He resigned that he would google it later. The cashier was attractive and he smiled at her when he got to the till. It was not returned. He paid the €12.99 with a crumpled twenty euro note and took his change. It was only outside of the hardware store that he realised the futility of this. The money was heavy with guilt in his pocket so he gave it to a homeless woman crouched low outside of a Tesco, clutching a styrofoam cup. As he walked away he heard her say “Have a nice day”, with genuine meaning. He quickened his pace. Mainly for something to do, he checked his To-Do list, written in neat, measured script: 

To-Do: 

1.) Buy rope. 

2.) Kill self. 

Somehow he felt he should have more to accomplish today. He illegibly scrawled “Get drunk” between the two and he was not sure whether this was out of fear of the end or simply just him looking for more purpose from his day. He walked into a nearby pub. He did not know its name. Sitting at the bar he ordered a double whiskey which he toyed with nervously for three minutes before leaving without paying. There had been a group of college students boisterously having fun in the corner of the pub and he wanted nothing to do with it. Luckily, an off-licence was attached to the pub and he bought a bottle of Jack Daniels and gave the cashier the remainder of his money. Upon leaving the bewildered cashier he felt guilty that he had not given the last of his money to a more worthy cause. However the fleeting memory of the homeless woman earlier warmed him into passivity. Bottle in hand he decided to walk home. Partly because he had no money left, partly because he had never done that before. As he walked he noticed how crisp the air seemed. How sharp the buildings looked and how definite and individual the people were. He’d never experienced this before. He felt as though he was perceiving the world as it truly was, not as how people saw it. He continued to walk with no set path in mind, merely taking in the world as it passed before him. After a time he found himself in front of the building in which he lived. He was unsure whether it was his subconscious or fate that had brought him there. When he went upstairs to his single room apartment he stood in the centre of the room for a long time and did nothing. Then, after a long breath, he slowly and meticulously packed his few belongings into his flaking leather suitcase. He put on his worn dark blue suit, making sure his shoes were polished and his tie was straight. Finally, he sat and he drank and he remembered the air that day.

It had been such a beautiful day. 

[i-write-stuff-sometimes-blog]

This not a poem. This is not a sentence. There is a mirror inside you. You are not art. The more you pay the more it’s worth. Here’s a cock, don’t think of sex. Something like this but not this. A naked woman dressed as a nun. A clothed man skinny dipping. A shrine to a five euro note signed by you. A group of people stroking their chins at a framed question mark. This is art. This is high culture. This is meaningless. Give me your money. This is we are better than you. This is not a poem. This is a long white corridor ending in minuscule black lettering: “Turn Around, Start Again”.

"Musings On Art; Or IMMA Fuck You Up." by Niall Donnelly.